The Pain of Loss
by Jollification
Summary: For almost 400 years, Arthur has been suffering from the loss of his colony, America. Every September 5th, the nation tries to drown his memories in alcohol before they have a chance to drown him in the depths of his pain.


The monotonous symphony of rain against the glass window was the only sound that plagued the dark study and the pungent smell of stale air lingered in the room like a sheet. For the briefest of moments the nation wondered if it was bad for his health to be breathing the stench of his library in all day.

To Hell with his bloody health.

The nation quickly took hold of the heavy crystal bottle that had been keeping him company since the beginning of the day, taking a generous mouthful of the clear liquid.

This was one day that Arthur would love to drink into oblivion and forget every second of. Which is just what he intended to do.

England's eyes fell on the lone crystal glass that he had originally started nursing the liquid from, long forgotten when the memories had started to plague him too quickly and he had to move onto drinking straight from the bottle of gin to keep up with the assault. The nation felt familiar pressure building up behind his eyes and rubbed at his forest-green orbs, trying to will the tears away.

The softest of knocks permeated through the study door and for the flash of a second Arthur thought he had imagined it or that perhaps, the bottle of gin he was slowly draining was actually starting to take affect. A brief moment of blissful silence hung in the room, until another soft knock echoed through the door and a small voice made its present known.

"Arthur, Francis is here to see you," the bored voice of Wales reached England's ears.

The nation let out an exasperated sigh, bringing his fingers up to the bridge of his nose to try and will away the pain that was now beginning to radiate through his temples. Simply knowing that the damn frog was waiting for him on the other side of the door gave him a headache.

He just wanted to be left alone. On all of the days of the year, Francis had to bother him on the one day that Arthur needed to be alone most. Pain shooting through his temples, the Brit felt hot, bubbling anger shoot up his stomach and inch its way up his spine, eventually warming his face.

"Goddamn you! Leave me the bloody Hell alone!" the nation screamed, grabbing the long forgotten crystal glass from his desk and flinging it at the door, shattering into an explosion of glittering shards when it met its mark. Taking another swig from his gin bottle, the angry nation hoped that the small show of rage had frightened the annoying Frenchman away. Arthur let out an angry puff of breath when he heard the oak door creak to life, showing an unamused Wales.

Steal colored eyes blinked apathetically, and England could have sworn he heard the words "I'm not cleaning that up" leak from the nation. Irritated, Arthur slammed his hands on the desk.

"What do you want? Can't you see I just want to be left alone?" he bellowed. Green eyes watched under furrowed brows as Wales exited the room and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door open.

Plopping down into his chair, Arthur knew what was coming.

"_Bonjour, Angleterre._"

The words were spoken without a sliver of sarcasm or joy, they were quiet and knowing; trying to offer a small glimmer of comfort. England hated them. There was nothing more he wanted to do than punch the wine-loving bastard in his face, but the nation was rooted to his chair, slightly shocked that France had still made his way into the study, even after having glass thrown at him.

England took another gulp from his bottle, feeling the warming liquid slowly pool in his stomach. He didn't want to look at Francis, he never wanted to let anyone see him in his grief laden state, especially the damn frog. Eyes downcast, Arthur let out a small croak, "What the Hell do you want Francis?"

There was no immediate response from the other nation and Arthur hoped that perhaps he had irked the Frenchman to the point where he would stand up for himself. England was itching for a fight; anything to take his mind off the past.

The sound of Francis flopping into the couch situated in front of Arthur's desk made him look up, noticing that Francis was sitting quietly, leg bent over the other, his hands resting on his knee.

Francis surveyed the smaller nation, who looked even smaller behind the large, oak desk.

The poor fool.

Dark circles plagued the area under his eyes and the Brit's eyes were puffy and red. The nation had been crying, of course, this day meaning too much to the smaller man to ever let go. Francis let out a sigh, noticing the open bottle of gin stationed near Arthur's hand. Noting it was almost half empty, Francis felt his mouth turn into a slight frown, but England didn't seem to notice.

"Did you just come here to stare at me, you bloody frog, or do you actually have a good reason to plague me on this day?" Arthur questioned harshly.

Francis took in a deep breath.

"_Mon ami_, you cannot drown yourself in cheap booze in order to forget your _douleur_," the nation pointed out.

"Oh, shut up! Don't tell _me_ how to take care of my problems," England spat, slightly waving his hand in the air while simultaneously taking another drink from his bottle. "And it's not cheap!"

The second sentence elicited a small laugh from the other nation and Arthur was about ready to jump over his desk and pummel the damn man.

Without Francis' amused laughter, the room fell into an awkward silence as misery silently radiated from the nation behind the desk. Arthur tipped the bottle towards Francis in an offering gesture.

"Want some?"

"_Non_."

England snorted. "You never did have good taste when it came to drinks," he laughed.

Francis raised an eyebrow. In the Frenchman's eyes, it was quite the other way around, and Arthur knew it all too well. Francis decided to let the jab fizzle in the air, ignoring the slight smirk on the other man's face. No, France was not here to fight, he was here to stop his friend from drinking himself to death, a goal that sprung up on the Englishman's mental calendar every September 5th. It had been that way for 349 years, Arthur would lock himself away from the world, no matter when or where, and try to erase his painful memories in alcohol.

Francis let out a sigh and a muffled "Shut up" flew from the other man's lips.

This banter was going nowhere, the taller man deduced, so he would go straight to the subject.

"_Angleterre_, what would _la petite colonie _think of you now?"

A visible flinch shot through the grieving nation and Francis knew that he had touched a nerve.

The nation behind the desk shrank back into his plush seat, as if trying to move himself away from Francis, and in essence, the subject that was being brought up. "Don't talk to me about him," England warned, his features growing dark.

"_Ce qui_? Now you are going to pretend like _l'enfant _never lived?" the Frenchman bated.

In a flash, Arthur had sprung to his feet and was right in front of Francis, trembling, the rage clearly marked evident on his face.

"Don't you _dare_ speak to me as if I haven't had to live with Alfred plaguing my mind every hour of the day, for almost 400 years!" He yelled, clearly shaken by the other man's words. The forest-green eyes that usually blazed with anger at World Meetings now were lined with tears. They never fell, but the French nation could clearly see that the subject of Alfred weighed heavily on the English nation's conscience. "You know _nothing _of the pain I deal with every day!"

Francis gave a pitying look to his friend, "_Oui, _you are right…I have no idea," the nation admitted, "but that does not mean I do not know the pain of loss."

The shorter nation sauntered back to the plush chair he had been seated in before and plopped down, letting out an exhausted breath. Making a desperate attempt to rub at his eyes, he sniffled, trying his best to hide the sorrow that was about to burst forward.

"No, I had known the pain of loss…before Alfred…but when you lose a child, it's the worst pain imaginable." Arthur let out the briefest of sobs before trying to quench the pain that was radiating from his heart. The island nation brought trembling fingers to his chest, hovering over the organ that was bringing him so much suffering.

Oh yes, Francis had hit the central nerve. He felt sad that England, after all the years they had known each other, could not talk about the subject willingly to him. Yes, they constantly fought and argued, and they called each other enemies, but there was a mutual level of respect that hung between the two. One could say, if they ignored the heated words of hate and the brawling fights, that the two were friends, but neither would admit it. It was a shame that, of the few friends Arthur had, Francis could not even broach the subject without being threatened.

Silent tears were now running down the smaller nation's face, but Francis said nothing, grateful and slightly shocked that Arthur had said as much as he had.

"I-it's almost like…having your heart ripped from your body, still beating, and having all the veins get tugged along with it," the man stuttered. "And w-when you get your heart back, it doesn't feel like your own, it feels…w-wrong," England muttered. "The pain of living without something so precious wares on your body and the guilt that you are still living, walking around, and breathing, weighs on you like the heaviest of stones." England pushed the crystal bottle away. "It's like that everyday…even after so long."

The other nation took this all in, seeing the briefest glimmer of grief the man dealt with.

"There's not a day I don't t-think about him," Arthur murmured, "his glowing smile and his happy voice…I try my hardest to remember only the best of America…but sometimes…his final days are the only things that greet my memories."

Francis felt a deep tug at his heart, memories of the bright and exuberant child they found on the prairie leaking into his consciousness. Yes, Francis remembered _la petite colonie, _very well. Flashes of the two nations arguing over who the child looked like more ricocheted through his mind, and the briefest shame of when Alfred chose Arthur over him rang in his memories. He smirked, remembering the colony and the other nation fondly; joyous, happy times, before the sickness had literally wiped out the colonies. Francis felt his mood darken, remembering the suffering that had taken root in America in the 1600's.

His thoughts were interrupted as Arthur spoke.

Hands cradling his head, he muttered the words that everyone had known for a long time, whether Arthur was stating it to himself or to him, Francis did not know, but the sentence hung like a poisonous gas in the air.

"It was that damn plague you know, I remember it had been raging in London in 1665, but…I never thought it would reach America…I thought he would be safe across the vast Atlantic." Another sob ripped through the British man. "I never imagined that Alfred could be taken away…for God's sake, he was a nation! We're not supposed to die like he did! He had been so strong, but then it shifted…so drastically."

France twitched, feeling a heavy stone-like feeling settle in his stomach.

Arthur shook his head in his hands. "I had no idea what to do…I felt so useless, all I could do was stay by his bedside and watch as he slipped through my fingers."

* * *

The Bubonic plague, my fave. Yeah, I know nations can't die, but I can dream! Please tell me what you thought, I love comments.


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